


Designed To Be

by saruma_aki



Series: Coldflash Week 2017 B [2]
Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: A/B/O, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Blood and Gore, Coldflash Week 2017, Coldflashweek2017B, Emotional Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Minor Injuries, Minor Violence, only a little bit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-03
Updated: 2017-10-03
Packaged: 2019-01-08 09:30:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12251637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saruma_aki/pseuds/saruma_aki
Summary: There's a benefit to their biology. Just because not everyone can see it doesn't mean it isn't there.





	Designed To Be

**Author's Note:**

> This is for day two of Coldflash Week 2017 in October. The prompt was A/B/O. I've never been a big fan of A/B/O fics, so I really wanted to do this day because I wanted to present a new perspective on the trope.
> 
> I hope you enjoy my take on it!

“Clear out of here! Go!” the man yelled and Barry stumbled back a bit, ducking, arms covering his head as another explosion was set off, eyes wild as he looked back at the smoke dancing through the air, the rubble of a newly formed hole in the wall. “Do it! They catch you and this whole operation is a bust.”

“But—”

“Go already! I’m already a dead man walking.”

He could feel the panic coursing through his veins, the desperation—the confusion. He didn’t want to go. He didn’t want to leave anyone behind, but—he could see the pooling on the floor, could see the way his vest was turned around, the front clasps completely tattered and useless, could imagine how the man’s insides were completely exposed, rubbing up against the Kevlar, blood pulsing out, the enormous amount of pain the man had to be going through.

He gritted his teeth, muscles tensing before he spun on his heel and fled through one of the holes in the wall, away from the recent one, ducking behind destroyed buildings and cars, trying to make it back to the safe point in one piece.

He didn’t want to leave anyone behind—he didn’t want to.

Cursing internally, he kept running, refusing to stop, refusing to look back, refusing to see all that had been left behind, refusing to think of all those not making it to the safe point. He couldn’t bear to see that right now.

In the distance he could hear the sound of the propellers of a fighter jet, could see the streak of it in the air, watched as it came closer, the colors ominous—not the right symbol, not the right symbol. He cursed, skidding as he rounded a corner, diving into a broken bakery just as the jet came closer to the ground, a string of bullets cascading onto the cement and he shuddered at the hard sounds, as he heard a gurgled cry from outside.

Someone else left behind.

The sound of the jet and the bullets became more distance and he forced himself to move, shoving himself into action, clambering out the broken window, ignoring the scratches the broken glass gave him, taking off down the street once again, breath harshly escaping him with every pant, eyes trained forward, ears open for any sounds of a potential threat.

He knew the officer from before had been right. If he didn’t get out, all those lives will have been wasted. He was the one with the information. If he didn’t make it, they were screwed.

His communicator was damaged, a worthless piece of machinery still attached to his vest, not helpful in sending in a transmission at all. All around him there was rubble and destruction, bodies of civilians that hadn’t been cleared out scattered around.

The safe point was just a few ways away. He could see it, but he could hear the sound of the jet behind him, the power of the propellers. It had come around and he could practically feel the force of the wind it generated, could hear the click of the machine guns loading, felt his heart jump into his throat, his stomach plummet, but he kept moving, trying to give himself as much cover whenever possible.

The safe point was just right there, and pick up was supposed to be there any second. If he could get there—if he could just get there.

The rain of bullets started and he could see the concrete crack where the metal shells pierces, heard glass shatter from somewhere on his right, could practically feel the heat of them on his back as he tried to speed up just that bit more, get some sort of cover.

And then there were bullets coming at him from the front and he threw himself to the ground, hearing the whirr of the jet behind him, the sound of metal piercing metal, the crash and explosion of it hitting the ground, the sound of men screaming.

“Move—get up and move!”

He heard the scream from above, from a hoarse voice, the desperate tinge to it, and he cast a glance behind him, saw the destruction, forced himself to his feet and ran, muscles straining, lungs fighting, hands flailing out to grab tight to the extended ladder, letting out a grunt of exertion as the jet began moving, jerking him and the ladder to the side, forcing his grip to be tight as he climbed up, grabbing the hand of the agent inside, hauling himself in, breaths harsh as he lay on his back, staring up at the metal ceiling.

“You can’t rest yet. We’re still not clear.”

His nod was jerky and tired.

The agent moved to the opening, hauling in another agent that had just barely made up the ladder, blood covering half of his face in a crimson mask, his breathing labored, coughs rattling out of him. “Snow, we need you back here for this.”

One of the agents up front moved towards the back, tugging her hair back as she did. She immediately began to attend to the bloodied agent and Barry could only watch in detached interest and concern.

Only one other agent made it to the safe point before they had to move, the sound of another jet approaching forcing them to move.

“Hold on—it’s going to get bumpy,” the pilot from the front called back while the agent that had been helping people in, Ramon, dragged the ladder up, a grimace on his face. He didn’t seem any happier about the knowledge of leaving people behind than Barry did.

The torrent of bullets started as the side door was slammed shut, the jet tilting to the side dangerously as Snow struggled to get the injured agents buckled in while not falling herself. Barry clung to the railing support from above, letting out a hiss as he was slammed into the metal wall.

“Snart, be careful! There are people on here. It’s not just you.”

“There are three jets coming at us and they’re not just using bullets. I’m doing what I can to keep this bird in the air. So shut up and strap in!”

The jet swerved dangerously, again, nose diving downward and Snow groaned as the belts tightened around her chest, Ramon gripping tight to the seat, trying to keep himself in place. Barry’s fingers twisted tight in the straps on the ceiling, letting out a grunt.

“Ramon, you need to get back up here. They cracked the glass a bit. If that hole gets any bigger,” Snart warned from upfront and Ramon twisted in his seat.

“I got it,” Barry finally spoke, his voice hoarse from all the smoke he had been breathing in when he had been in the room with the man—the man he left behind, bleeding out with his intestines pushing against his vest. Swallowing thickly, he shoved himself towards the front as quickly as possible, grabbing onto the chair next to the pilot’s, twisting to sit down, clicking the belt into place before looking at the man next to him. “Where’s the hole?”

“Near the right edge, your side, upper half,” the man gritted out, his hand tight on the control, jerking it to the right, his other hand, flying to one of the other jacks, gripping it and wrenching it around as the jet spun to the right, a rain of bullets escaping, the vibration shooting up Barry’s leg, making his heart race.

He focused on finding the crack, fingering the side of the seat to find the toolbox that was supposed to be there, locating the crack at the same time his fingers closed around the solid shape of the box, tugging it out and onto his lap, fingering through it until he found what he was looking for.

“How fast can you work?”

“Pretty fast,” Barry responded, glancing at the man out of the side of his eye, managing to grab hold of the toolbox in time as the jet shot up into the air, barely managing to miss a torrent of bullets and what seemed to be a missile.

“Good—go. You’ve got fourteen seconds.”

His hands flew across the window, fixing the glass as quickly as possible, shoving himself back into the seat just in time, grabbing a tight hold of the material as Snart yanked on the controls and the jet tilted backwards, the engines cutting, the whole plane plummeting down to the ground.

“Snart, are you insane?” Ramon yelled from the back, but Barry could tell the man wasn’t listening. There was a manic glint to his eyes, but a dazed tinge to them, his hand flying across the control board to jab at a few buttons before the engines roared back to life, the man’s hand jerking the machine gun control as he forced the bird to spin while it ascended, firing a ring of metal.

And then the man was ripping the base board out, hissing at Barry to take over the controls, ducking down into the wires while Barry grabbed the controls, keeping the same upward course Leonard had set them on before the man was coming back up, two wires pinched between him fingers that he shoved into Barry’s hands.

“When I tell you to, touch them together.”

And then the bird was tilting forwards, jetting ahead, but Barry could hear see the plane behind them on the radar, a green dot spelling out death, but they had gotten so far, they couldn’t die now.

“Ready,” Snart hissed in question, grasping the controls for the bird tightly in both hands, the control for the guns left unattended. At Barry’s nod, though, Snart seemed to steel himself before gritting out, “now.”

The two wires sparked when they touched and the jet jerked, Snart tilting the controls downward as the sudden burst of power forced the jet forward, closer to the ground, away from the aim of the bullets from the jet before Snart was forcing the jet up, forcing it into a direct path, the sheer power of their speed forcing Barry back into his seat, making the cracks in the glass bigger, the temporary fix Barry’s work provided not enough when confronted with this much power.

And then the engines sputtered and died out.

 

 

 

“Are you insane?” Ramon hissed as they got out of the landed aircraft, Snow getting the injured agents to medical. “You could’ve killed us.”

“You’re alive, aren’t you?” was Snart’s response, expression irritated but bored, looking like he really wanted to be anywhere else at the moment. “We needed to get here quickly and I got us here. You should say ‘thank you’.”

“Thank you?” Ramon spluttered, voice squeaking with incredulity.

“You’re welcome,” the man smirked, uncrossing his arms as he looked over at Barry. “You need to get to medical. The Captain will want to see you soon.”

Barry watched him walk away, his stomach twisting as he watched the man get further and further away, only jerking his gaze away when Ramon patted his shoulder, steering him to medical, muttering about reckless ex-convicts, his expression sour.

Barry couldn’t say he shared the sentiment towards Snart.

 

 

 

“Do you think I’ll have to dye my hair after this one?” Barry questioned as he stepped into the room, watching the muscles of the man before him lock up and then relax, the man turning around to face him.

“Depends on how this one wraps up,” Leonard responded with, stepping away from the figures in front of him and moving to the computer, shutting down the simulation. There was sweat beading at his forehead and his breath was slow and deep, an attempt to calm his heart rate. “How’re you feeling?”

Barry shrugged helplessly, lips pursing as he looked at the ground. He didn’t know how he felt, really. He could still see the face of the man he had left behind; hear the scream of an agent as he got mowed down by the enemy jet. It made his insides twist, but he had been trained to work under pressure, to deal with the feelings the situations dredged up, to work past it.

“Barry?”

“I’ll be fine in a few days, probably,” he whispered, and he could see Leonard’s shadow drawing closer as the man moved nearer step by step. “It’s just,” he sighed, brow furrowing, “we had to leave some behind. I don’t—they’re either dead or being tortured right now, probably, and it just,” he groaned, letting his gaze flick up to meet Leonard’s, those blue eyes that were always so understanding.

“There’s nothing we can do right now,” Leonard whispered, his brow furrowed and the corners of his lips pulling downward into an apologetic frown, letting Barry crumple against him, rubbing a hand up and down his back, unable to do anything more other than hold him. “You know that we’re going to do our best to get them back, Barry,” Leonard assured, voice steady and firm, conviction clear.

Barry just nodded weakly against Leonard’s shoulder, inhaling and exhaling shakily, trying to get himself under control even as he felt like he was splintering apart.

It was always like this after a mission that had gone less than perfect.

“How are you physically?” Leonard asked after a few more moments of just holding Barry, when the tackiness of sweat became too much of a bother for him to continue on without a shower, pulling away gently to go fetch the hand towel he had on the side and his bag, moving to the room beside the training room, setting his bag down and fetching what he needed, Barry sitting by his bag.

“Doc says I’m fine, thankfully,” Barry responded. “Just a little banged up, but some rest will heal it,” he added, and Leonard gave a small hum in response, turning on the shower.

“Need a kiss to make it all better?” Leonard teased as the water cascaded down his back, hearing Barry’s answering snort even over the sound of water, soaping himself up efficiently, wanting to be clean as fast as possible.

“When I’m a little less sore, more than a kiss will be better, but for now a kiss shall do,” Barry chuckled, slouching slightly where he sat, toying with the strap of Leonard’s bag.

“Might have to wait a bit longer,” Leonard mumbled as he stepped out of the shower stall, toweling himself down, a slight frown on his face.

“You’re being sent out again?”

“Yeah,” he sighed, pulling out a clean shirt from his bag and tugging it on, Barry watching him get dressed with a slightly devastated look on his face. “We’re going to try to do pick up.”

“Leonard,” Barry breathed out, brow furrowing. “After what happened last time—are you sure?”

“You said it yourself. Those men are either dead or being tortured right now. There are families that want a body for the funeral they’ll have to hold, and there are men who want to come home and are holding out in hopes that we’ll come and get them.”

“Len,” Barry murmured, reaching out and taking the man’s hand, feeling the way those fingers twitched against his, the way they slowly curled to hold Barry’s hand back, lips pursing just slightly.

“Last time was an accident. I’m going alone with Mick this time.”

“Promise you’ll come back?”

Leonard gave him a wry grin. “I’ll do my best.”

Leonard never promised anything.

It was probably for the best that he didn’t.

 

 

 

A week passed before Barry was allowed to see Leonard who had been holed up in the medical wing since he had gotten back, being treated for something that Barry didn’t know what was, unable to see him and be with him and make sure he was okay.

The white and clinical feeling of the medical wing didn’t suit Leonard who was sitting on the bed, tying up his boots, dressed in his typical black garb, butterfly stitches on the gash on his temple, and his left arm bandaged but hanging freely at his side. Barry watched how he moved gingerly off the bed, his right hand coming up rest on the center of his chest, lightly rubbing against the fabric of the shirt, but not applying a lot of pressure—or any at all, really.

“How many,” Barry spoke, drawing Leonard’s eyes up to meet his, announcing his presence at last.

“All of them. The ones that were alive have been treated or are undergoing rehabilitation if they need it,” Leonard responded, and Barry noted how his voice was scratchy and hoarse, noted the slight peek of bandages from under the fabric of the turtle neck the man wore.

“How are you?” he took a step closer, followed by another and another while Leonard watched him with those intelligent blue eyes of his that never ceased to take Barry’s breath away.

“Alive,” Leonard responded, a slight smirk appearing on his lips, arms spreading slightly as if to show how very alive he was. And he was so very alive, so very real, that it made Barry’s eyes well with tears a little bit because he had been terrified that he would have lost him this time for sure.

“What happened?”

“Direct fire to the front glass of the jet,” Leonard responded, letting Barry take hold of his left arm, letting his finger tips drag over the rough material, wondering what life beneath it, how bad it was. “It was fortunate no one was in the co-pilot seat.”

“Where was Mick?”

“In the back,” Leonard responded, turning his hand in Barry’s hold to grasp Barry’s hand gently, his hold weaker than usual, whatever injury that Leonard had sustained on that arm limiting his mobility. “On the bright side, though,” Leonard began, stepping closer, bright blue eyes shining with what can only be delight, “we get to go home.”

“Seriously,” Barry whispered, shock and awe clear in his voice. At Leonard’s nod, he let out a little noise of joy, smile breaking out on his face, pulling Leonard into a hug that he made sure to keep gentle despite his excitement at the news. He still didn’t know the extent of Leonard’s injuries. “It’s over?”

“The information you got assured that it was.”

Barry wasn’t even ashamed to let the tears fall, smile open and relieved, holding Leonard close, and feeling light and jubilant at the knowledge that they were going to be able go home once more.

 

 

 

It was two weeks before they were able to be brought home, sitting secure and safe in the vehicle and transferring to a plane upon reaching the airport easily, the tension not leaving their bodies until they touched down at the airport in Central City and could get off the plane, waiting patiently at the baggage claim.

“Are you excited to be back?” Barry whispered, leaning against Leonard slightly.

The male shrugged, jaw clenching as he aborted the gesture midway through, shoulders hunching slightly as the injury on his chest pulled. Barry still hadn’t gotten a good look at what damage the male had undergone. “Wish we had been able to come back when Mick did, but better late than never.”

Barry hummed in understanding, perking up as he saw one of their bags, moving away from Leonard to go and grab it, shuffling back to stand by him as they continued to wait for their next bag. He could feel stares on them, judgmental and hard, making him want to curl up, to hide from them. For all the horrors he had seen and witnessed, it was still hard to come away from work and to be confronted head on with the immediate distrust and almost unconscious segregation their kind faced.

“Keep your head down,” Leonard whispered to him out of the corner of his mouth, lips not moving, eyes trained on the baggage claim, but his head tilted downward. He immediately does as instructed, letting their shoulders brush as they wait for their luggage. He knows why they’re doing this and it makes his insides churn every time to think about it.

They’re betas in a world where alphas and omegas are the prime specimens. They’re the ones sitting at the bottom of the food chain, not spectacularly good at anything—they weren’t the best beings for reproduction, they didn’t make people feel especially comfortable, and they didn’t make people feel especially protected and safe.

And here they were, both of them betas, both looking scuffed up like they had been fighting, Leonard more so than him, and Leonard in no condition to fight should anyone make a scene.

“There’s the other bag,” Leonard muttered and Barry hurried to get it, moving back to Leonard, giving him a small nudge as he slung one duffle bag over his shoulder, tugging the large suitcase behind him, a small smile overcoming his features once they stepped outside into the open, into the city, into their home.

They took a cab back to their apartment, paying the man with tight smiles before grabbing their stuff and walking up the stairs to their floor. When they opened the door, it was to a pristine apartment, everything just as they left it and finally Barry felt the tension bleed out of him, locking the door behind them and setting the alarm.

Their bags were set by the door inside their bedroom to be dealt with tomorrow, both of them simply taking off their shoes and falling into bed, Leonard obviously moving a bit more carefully.

“You texted Mick, right?” Barry murmured, reaching out to cup Leonard’s face, thumb rubbing gently over the male’s cheek, a soft look on his face, mirroring the one on Leonard’s. The male nodded, his hand coming up and gripping Barry’s forearm gently, thumb stroking the skin and hair there softly, a slight smile on his features. “It’s nice to be home,” Barry whispered.

“It is.”

 

 

 

Come morning found Barry gently changing Leonard’s bandages, a sympathetic grimace on his face as he undid the bandages on Leonard’s left arm, looking at the stitched up gash, setting about cleaning it gently, making sure to not disturb the stitches. Re-wrapping it in a clean bandage, he set about doing the same to the wound on Leonard’s chest, wanting to brush a kiss on top of the wound, to take the pain away, but he knew that it was not advised, so he settled for gently cleaning it and re-wrapping it in a clean bandage, placing a soft kiss on it when it was wrapped once more.

The bandages around his throat made Barry’s breath stutter as he pulled the bandages away and cleaned the wound gently, looking at the cut that had thankfully not gone any deeper, but now hung around Leonard’s neck like a collar, a brand of how close he had come to not coming back.

But he had, and that was the important part.

“Do you ever think of retiring?” Barry asked as they walked to the diner two blocks away from their apartment.

“Not really,” Leonard admitted, scratching his cheek with his uninjured hand, walking around a person on the street, though it was still early enough that there weren’t many people.

“No?”

“Nah,” Leonard responded, looking over at him, tucking his hand in his coat pocket, his other held in Barry’s own, his fingers shakily gripping back, strength still not completely back in that arm. “I wouldn’t want to live in this world too much,” Leonard admitted, casting his eyes around a little bit. “Out there, at least, we’re considered useful. It’s a job designed for us.”

“You want to spend the rest of your life fighting?” Barry asked hesitantly, his eyes drifting unconsciously to the white bandages wrapped around Leonard’s throat, to the bandages around his arm, to the stitches on his temple, to the bandages he knew were wrapped around his chest.

“No,” Leonard responded easily. “I’d change positions—get a desk job there or be a trainer. I don’t want to be at war all my life, but if I left there and stayed here, I’d still be fighting, just in a different way.”

Barry nodded, giving Leonard’s hand a gentle squeeze, the knot in his chest loosening.

“I think this is the last job I’ll be doing for a while, though,” Leonard admitted, looking down, but the motion of his head was aborted midway as it quickly grew uncomfortable.

“Yeah?” Barry murmured, squeezing his hand slightly. “Mine, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you all liked it!
> 
> You can find me instagram ( @saruma_aki ) and tumblr ( @saruma-aki )
> 
> Feel free to leave me a comment down below on your thoughts <3


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